


mourner's heritage

by Transistors



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Captive Talon Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Gen, Implied Widowmaker | Amélie LaCroix/Angela “Mercy” Ziegler, One-Sided Attraction, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistors/pseuds/Transistors
Summary: An unwilling chained captive of Talon, Angela watches Widowmaker for a little bit… and grieves.





	mourner's heritage

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr link.](https://masculinedevil.tumblr.com/post/167719608252/summary-an-unwilling-chained-captive-of-talon)

“You’re horrific.” Angela says softly, shadows heavy around her eyes and a bottle of alcohol hanging loosely from her hand. Her grip slips, little by little, as she watches the way Widowmaker – Amélie, once upon a better time – does her routine. A near ritualistic cleaning of her rifle, thin pianist fingers dancing along the weapon with mechanical precision and no care for it. Nothing at all like Jesse, who treats his revolver like it is an extension of him – a part of his body to be taken care of, better than his health itself.

No, Widowmaker does not share the same sort of passion that pumps through Jesse’s veins, nor does she have the same love that Reaper once upon a time has had for his shotguns. Her eyes linger on Widowmaker’s near anorexic figure, wondering what it is that keeps her functioning and what it is that even sustains her anymore. Traces of Moira’s experimentation lingers on Widowmaker’s skin, on the overwhelming veins that bulge underneath her paper-thin skin.

A glance is barely spared her way and Angela thanks God above that Widowmaker does not look at her; she closes her eyes and recites a prayer, lips parting ever so slightly and the clicks and clacks of the rifle does not distract her from reciting verses from the Bible to herself. “What have they done to you?” she asks and Widowmaker does not respond.

Words unsaid begin to build up in Angela’s chest, suffocating her ever so and she gasps, her eyes snap open, and she drops the bottle with an overwhelmingly loud crash as glass shatters around her, like ash spreading out from a long-lit flame. Finally that rouses Widowmaker’s attention, yet not her interest, and her dull eyes turn to face Angela.

Her movements are near inhuman; legs looking overwhelmingly long with how thin they are now and her walk looks clunky, as if she cannot take confident, normal stride any longer. She grabs at a waste bin nearby and begins to gather the glass up to throw in the trash, her expression unchanging and Angela’s now empty hand curls up into a tight fist.

No matter how long she has been with Talon, an animal caged and leashed with an electric collar, a part of her cannot grow accustomed to what has happened to Angela. Gabriel’s change has been easy to grow used to; he is still very much the same _Gabriel,_ even if his ideals have been warped and twisted by Akande’s clever words and ever so charming lies.

Despite the shame that bubbles up in her belly, a cauldron left unattended, Angela too has to admit that she nearly fell victim to Akande’s confidence and surety. A certain comfort to be found in the absoluteness that he speaks, so very sure of himself in a way that Jack has never been; always struggling with morals and ethics that even Angela has become disillusioned to the idea of Overwatch’s hope.

But Talon’s war is not what she wants to be part of, and collared she has become. A mercy, ironically, in comparison to what they have done to Widowmaker. The woman she has once admired, once pined for, is no more. Gone is the ballerina and pianist, the woman so proud of herself and her heritage, and instead stands in her place what might as well be a non-sentient omnic. Mechanical. Uncertain. Clunky. _Wrong._

Gone is Amélie LaCroix, and in her place stands a twisted spider that cannot even walk proper on her own legs, standing up atop her flimsy web. “Amélie… I am so sorry.” Angela says. “I am so, so sorry.” Tears gather at her eyes and slide down her cheeks, hiccups escaping her lips now that all the stress from the past two months have caught up to her.

Her hands fly up so that she may bury her face in her palms, grief consuming her and leeching away whatever numbness she has tried to build up over the days. Loud and pitiful sobs escape her and Angela’s entire body trembles as she thinks about how Amélie is…

A thin and cold hand rests itself upon her cheek and Angela looks up to meet the confused, lost gaze of Widowmaker. Her eyes are dull and cold still, lacking that lively spark that made Amélie into who she once was, and Angela’s heart tightens in her chest.

“I… miss you?” Widowmaker asks, her voice a weak croak, and Angela gently pushes her hands away. Widowmaker goes quiet and watches her as she stands to get the sniper some water, and Angela sits across her once more and Widowmaker stares at the bottle of water in her hand.

Despite how hard she tries, tears slip free from Angela’s eyes once more as she watches how slowly Widowmaker lifts the bottle of water to her lips and drinks it without a change in her expression, a glimmer in her eyes, and wonders if she can ever be returned to who she once was ever again.


End file.
